he able to free himself from these associations.

In autobiographical literature we from time to time come across accounts
of such perverse modes of sexual sensibility. Ulrich von Lichtenstein,
in whom masochistic inclinations were unmistakably present, relates that
when he was barely twelve years of age he became the devoted slave of a
grown woman; and he describes his sentiments, at this early age and
subsequently, towards this woman, who was well born, good and beautiful,
chaste in mind and body, and in every respect virtuous. Well known, too,
is the case of Rousseau, of which I shall have to speak again later;
this writer traces his masochistic perversion back to the seventh year
of his life. I may allude also to Retif de la Bretonne, who was born in
1734, and certainly experienced sexual sentiments in very early
childhood. In his _Monsieur Nicolas_,[58] which must be regarded as an
autobiographical work, Retif relates the beginnings, in the years
1743-44, of his fetichistic fondness (which endured throughout his life)
for women's feet and women's shoes. In purely fictional works, analogous
cases are also described. Thus, in his _Pour une Nuit d'Amour_, Zola
depicts a sadistic-masochistic relationship between two children:--

"From earliest childhood Therese von Morsanne used Colombel as the
scapegoat and the sport of her caprices. He was about six months older
than she. Therese was a dreadful child. Not that she was wild and
uncontrolled, like the ordinary unruly child; on the contrary, she was
extraordinarily serious, with the outward aspect of a well-brought-up
young lady. But she had most remarkable whims and caprices, When she was
alone, she would from time to time utter inarticulate cries or angry
howls.

"From the age of six she began to torment little Colombel. He was small
and weakly. She would lead him to the back of the park, to a place where
the chestnut-trees formed an arbour; here she would spring on his back
and make him carry her about, riding sometimes round and round for
hours. She compressed his neck, and thrust her heels into his sides, so
that he could hardly breathe. He was the horse, she was the lady on
horseback. When he was tired out, and ready to drop from exhaustion, she
would bite him till the blood flowed, and would cling to her seat so
tightly that her nails sank into his flesh. And the ride would thus
start once more. The cruel queen of six years old, borne on the back of
the little